


Ice-Cream-Sweet

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Chubby Porthos, Fat Character, Fluff, Happy, M/M, Tattoos, Trans Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:21:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For CanadianGarrison, who prompted me on Tumblr: Of I want portamis! Modern portamis where Porthos is fat and ARamis loves it. But maybe someone makes a mean comment and Aramis comes to Porthos's defence?</p><p>I wrote sex! There is sex! And kinks! Yes! And ice cream!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ice-Cream-Sweet

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> Warnings: brief fat shaming, and the use of the term 'trans-sexual' in an insulting way. Both comments made to Porthos

                                                                                  

 

Aramis traces the whirls and colour of Porthos' tattoo. It spreads over his shoulder, down his biceps, over some of his back. Aramis traces the patterns with his fingers, bending his head to taste the ink. Porthos rumbles under him, waking and grumbling. Aramis smiles against Porthos' skin shifting so he's straddling him more firmly, and leans into his shoulders, tongue tracing up over the tattoo to Porthos' neck, kissing up under his ear, around to the squished round of his cheek. Porthos' one visible eye opens.

 

“Morning,” Aramis says, beaming.

 

“Get off. S'early. Sleep,” Porthos says, words coming out low and growly. Aramis beams wider and tries to steal the words from Porthos' mouth.

 

“I want to have sex with you,” Aramis says, sitting back a little bit, just a little, so he can run his hand over Porthos' biceps. “May I?”

 

“Early,” Porthos repeats.

 

“Sunshine,” Aramis counters.

 

Porthos turns his head, bucking Aramis off his back with a sudden, graceful movement and then flopping onto his back, in a much less graceful move. Porthos squints towards the curtains where the sun's peeking in.

 

“Busy old sun, unruly fool, why dost thou thus, through windows and through curtains call on us?” Porthos grumbles.

 

“Busy old _fool_ unruly _sun_ ,” Aramis corrects. “And Donne was writing about wanting more sex, not less.”

 

Aramis plasters himself over Porthos again, hands roaming, the soft press of Porthos' stomach against his erection exciting him. Aramis rocks, getting a thigh across Porthos' body, running his hands over Porthos' chest. Porthos sits up, shoving Aramis off.

 

“Sorry,” Aramis says, holding up his hands.

 

“Let me do somethin' about these, then you can fuck me,” Porthos says, folding his arms across his chest and wandering over to the chair. His binder's hung over the back.

 

Aramis gets up, too, padding after him. They're both completely naked, which Aramis adores. He gets his arms around Porthos' middle and rubs a hand over the bulge of his stomach, getting a handful of the fat over his hip.

 

“Get off,” Porthos says, slapping his hand away, laughing. “You're terrible! Help me out with this, then, if you're so impatient.”

 

Aramis presses a kiss to the back of Porthos' neck, running his hands up his body, taking the binder. He wraps it around Porthos, kissing the skin before it gets covered, pulling until it stretches and doing up the clasps. Porthos leans back into him and Aramis presses his face into Porthos' neck, licking and biting at the skin there.

 

“You're so lovely,” Aramis says, running his hands over the binder, over the flesh that presses out around it, over Porthos' belly again. “You wanna pack?”

 

“Mm-hmm. Could fuck you, actually, this mornin'.”

 

“You want that?”

 

“Mm. Lovely arse, you've got, an' all.”

 

Aramis grins and bounces a little, leaning into Porthos further so he can reach around him, shuffling them over to the chest of drawers. He gets the hard packer and harness and crouches in front of Porthos, kissing the crease of his thigh, running hands over the thick muscle and fat of those thighs, pressing a kiss to his belly and pubic hair. Porthos lets him do everything, then adjusts the harness and tugs Aramis to his feet.

 

“How's your morning breath?” Porthos asks. “Never mind.”

 

He kisses Aramis, deep and passionate, pressing him back to the bed and climbing on after him. He lays Aramis on his back and follows, on his knees, straddling him. The dildo presses to Aramis' stomach and Aramis' erection presses to Porthos' arse and Aramis moans, grabbing handfuls of Porthos, tipping his head back. They rock like that for a bit, while Porthos runs his hands over Aramis' body, pressing trails of kisses after his fingers.

 

“Come on,” Aramis says, impatient, bucking hard.

 

“Right. Turn over, then,” Porthos says, giving Aramis' thigh a light smack.

 

Aramis does as he's told, and Porthos slides a pillow under his hips, then gets busy with his mouth on Aramis' arse. Aramis sighs happily, sprawling forward over the bed in a hedonistic spiral of desire and pleasure, body thrumming and pulsing. Eventually Porthos gets up over him and straddles his hips again, bending to kiss his shoulders and neck. Aramis twists to try and get a kiss. He misses and just gets Porthos' wrist, but Porthos seems to like that so Aramis keeps on, sucking a kiss to the sensitive skin there. Then he bites.

 

“Ah! You little animal!” Porthos says, laughing. Aramis can feel the laughter vibrating all the way through him. “Right, that's it.”

 

Porthos gets up on his knees again and positions himself. He fucks Aramis thoroughly, and then, when he's come, he turns Aramis over and presses thumbs into the creases of Aramis' thighs, giving him a blowjob until he cries out, arching into the sheets. Porthos pulls off in time to be covered in spunk.

 

“Thanks,” Porthos mutters, flopping onto his back. He tosses the dildo to the floor and it lands with a wet sounding thunk. The harness flies after it, and then Porthos heaves himself on top of Aramis and goes limp, sated and sighing in happiness.

 

“Get these chopped off soon,” Porthos mutters, getting a hand between them to rub over his chest.

 

“Sore?” Aramis asks.

 

“It's been chafing me nipples,” Porthos says. “Hurts me back, too.”

 

“Mm. You're squashing me.”

 

“I am. It's lovely.”

 

Aramis laughs, breathless with Porthos' weight. Aramis can't even deny it, because he's the one who calls it lovely. He does like being under Porthos, having the man sprawled over him in all his naked glory. All his dark skin, all the ink, all the rolls and hard planes of him. Aramis gets an arm around him and gathers an armful of Porthos' softness, tipping his head back, hair sticking to his sweaty face. His cock twitches against Porthos' thigh.

 

“Again?” Porthos asks, a little hopefully, hips rocking a little.

 

“God, you're insatiable. No, not yet. Would be more than happy to eat you out, if you feel like it.”

 

“Mm. Nah. Maybe.”

 

Aramis wriggles, and Porthos lifts himself enough so Aramis can shift around so he's under Porthos' crotch, instead. Aramis puts his mouth over Porthos' genitals, and licks gently, waiting for a more enthusiastic go-ahead. Porthos rolls onto his side and lifts his leg, opening himself up for Aramis.

 

“Yeah, that's nice,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis grins, gives Porthos a quick kiss there, then moves so he's between Porthos' thighs. Porthos prefers being on his side for this, so Aramis doesn't try to turn him onto his back. He holds Porthos' thigh, resting it on his shoulder, resting himself on the other one, and presses licking, teasing kisses until Porthos is rocking and moaning, hands in Aramis' hair.

 

“Mm… muh… I'm gonna...” Porthos mutters, then does, with a flood and a jerk, then he relaxes, flopping onto his back.

 

“Alright?” Aramis asks, wiping his mouth.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Aramis gets Porthos a soft packer and some briefs, and then cuddles with him, kissing over his belly to his chest and his neck and his lips. He presses his thumb to the dimple just above Porthos elbow and they rest, centimetres apart, breath on each other's faces.

 

“Shower,” Porthos says, eyes heavy.

 

“Mm,” Aramis agrees, shutting his eyes.

 

They doze off, tangling together in their sleep. When Aramis wakes up again, he's alone, and the bed is cold. Porthos is long gone. Aramis stretches, yawning, making loud noises, hoping to lure him back.

 

“Oi! Come in 'ere with me if you want company!” Porthos calls from the kitchen, laughing, when Aramis yowl-yawns.

 

Aramis sighs but gets up and goes through, not bothering with clothes. Porthos laughs at him again when he appears naked, hard enough that he bends over in his seat, gesturing to the right. Aramis glances that way and spots d'Artagnan, staring at him, eyes very wide. Staring at his crotch, in fact. Aramis cocks his hip and grins.

 

“Hello, Charlie,” Aramis says.

 

“Go put some clothes on, you twit,” Porthos says, getting up to shove at Aramis' hip, lips brushing his cheek.

 

“I'm quite happy as is,” Aramis says, turning so their lips brush.

 

“Yeah, but d'Art's gonna combust. He's gone purple,” Porthos says. Aramis can feel him grinning.

 

Porthos gives him another shove, and Aramis goes to pull on joggers and a t-shirt. When he returns there's a cup of coffee and a muffin waiting for him. Porthos and d'Artagnan are in the middle of a serious sounding conversation, so Aramis sits quietly and drinks his coffee and eats his muffin and listens to Porthos advising d'Artagnan on his love life. Mostly Porthos' advice seems to be 'well, what do you think about that?' and 'hmm'.

 

“You could always-” Aramis starts, but Porthos cuts him off with raised eyebrows. “What?”

 

“You don't get to give advice on people's love lives, remember?” Porthos says.

 

“Yeah, but that was years ago!” Aramis protests.

 

“Uh-uh. No. Also, he don't need advice, we're just listenin',” Porthos says.

 

“No, I need advice,” d'Artagnan says. Wails.

 

“It'll be fine,” Porthos says, soothingly.

 

“Porthos!” d'Artagnan says.

 

Aramis laughs, reaching over to cup Porthos' face. Porthos dimples, leaning forward to accept the kiss Aramis is offering, sighing into it.

 

“I'll make lunch,” Aramis says, when he pulls back. “Anything you feel like?”

 

“Cheesy pasta,” Porthos says, without hesitation.

 

“Pasta it is,” Aramis says, rubbing his thumb under Porthos eye. “You tired, babe? You're a bit baggy here.”

 

“Shut up, leave me be. I just get panda-eyes,” Porthos says, pulling his face out of Aramis' hold and turning back to d'Artagnan.

 

Aramis gets up and kisses his forehead, going to get the pasta on. He listens as Porthos goes back to humming and saying 'that'll work. What else do you think?' and 'maybe try that', and 'would you be alright with that?'. It's skilful, the way Porthos guides d'Artagnan into coming up with his own solutions and talking himself around to knowing what he needs. Porthos has done it Aramis a time or two, it's enjoyable not being on that end of it.

 

“Can you grate the cheese, Porthos?” Aramis asks, yawning. “I need to ring Athos about tomorrow before I forget.”

 

“Mm, sure. Did you get the stuff?”

 

“Yeah. Just got to ask him to pick up booze,” Aramis says.

 

He detours via Porthos on his way to find his phone, getting a squeeze and quick kiss. Porthos grumbles about him not bringing over the cheese and grater and having to get up, so Aramis bends to squeeze his middle pointedly.

 

“Oi! I do not need to do more exercise,” Porthos says, laughing, leaping to his feet and roaring, lifting Aramis off his feet. Aramis laughs too, resting his arms on Porthos' shoulders. “Go, ring Athos, make sure we have booze tomorrow. Make sure he doesn't just buy very expensive red wine.”

 

Aramis pointedly goes limp, to explain that he can't go anywhere, and Porthos lets out a belly laugh and sets him back on his feet, kisses him, dips him, and shoves him away. He gooses him and smacks his arse as Aramis goes.

 

“You're so handsy!” Aramis calls back, wandering to the bedroom in search of his phone.

 

“Only for you, darling,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis lies on the bed to make his phonecall, listening affectionately to Athos grumbling about them all being together and him not being there. Aramis suggests he come over but Athos makes a disparaging noise before admitting he's still in his pyjamas. Athos turns up half an hour later, still in said pyjamas, cycle helmet crammed on his head.

 

“You have ducks,” Porthos says.

 

They're sat around the kitchen, Porthos with yet another bowl of pasta and cheese. He's frowning at Athos' legs. Which do indeed have ducks on them.

 

“Pyjamas,” Athos says, sprawling in a chair next to Porthos, scowling. “You're having meetings without inviting me.”

 

“How's Sylvie?” Porthos asks, grinning, ignoring the complaint. Athos goes pink and Porthos reaches over to give his neck an affectionate squeeze. “That's going well, then. Is she the reason for the jammies?”

 

“No.”

 

d'Artagnan laughs, rather gleefully. Aramis smiles, settling next to Porthos, resting a hand on his thigh. Porthos gives him a smile, and bites his lip.

 

“Not _again_ ,” Aramis says, though he wouldn't be averse to another round. Kicking the others out and just having Porthos on the kitchen table. Aramis hums. “No. No, not again. Not yet.”

 

“Fine,” Porthos grumbles.

 

“Are you two on about sex again? You're like rabbits on heat,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Do we have ice cream? If I can't have sex, I should get ice cream,” Porthos says.

 

“Seeing as we're all here now, we hardly need to have a barbecue tomorrow,” Athos says.

 

“Nope. You're bringing Sylvie and we're meetin' her proper and you're bringin' booze,” Porthos says.

 

“Fine,” Athos says. “But then, I should get ice cream, too.”

 

                                                                                                           

 

“Is there any of that ice cream left?” Aramis asks, later, when d'Artagnan's gone home, and Athos is asleep in the spare room. Asleep or talking to Sylvie, one or the other. He got a bit drunk. “Did you eat it all?”

 

“Yeah, but there's another one in there. You want?” Porthos asks, yawning, spread face down on the bed, head turned so his face is to Aramis' thigh where Aramis is sat.

 

“No. I want to serve you,” Aramis says, threading his fingers into Porthos' hair.

 

Porthos makes an interested noise, and his hips shift. Aramis grins, and goes to get the ice cream. When he gets back, Porthos is sat against the headboard, legs crossed. Aramis puts the ice cream on the bedside table and takes Porthos' hands, drawing him to sit on the edge of the bed. Porthos has switched to a hard packer and harness, while Aramis is out, and it pokes out of his boxers when he spreads his legs.

 

 

Aramis kneels between Porthos' knees and looks up, taking Porthos' hand and pressing a kiss to the palm, turning his head to rest his cheek against it. Porthos' fingers rub against his stubble a moment, then rest, cradling Aramis' cheek. Aramis bows his head, letting his eyes fall to Porthos' crotch. Porthos guides him, hand shifting around to his neck, spreading his legs wider. Guides Aramis to his thigh, to press there, cheek against Porthos' warm skin.

 

“Mm,” Porthos hums, pushing his hips forwards. “C'mon, then, pet. Little bit higher.”

 

Aramis pushes forwards, pressing his lips higher up Porthos' thigh. Porthos leaves him there for a moment, reaching for something. A condom, Aramis realises. Porthos tips Aramis' head back and Aramis opens his mouth, accepting the furled condom. He has to use his hand to keep it in place while Porthos wriggles out of his pants.

 

“Put that on me, then,” Porthos says, using a bit more force in guiding Aramis.

 

Aramis can't get the entire dildo in his mouth without gagging. Porthos lets him gag, once, then uses his hand to roll the condom the rest of the way on. He pushes Aramis in closer, so the dildo's against one cheek, Porthos' thigh the other. Aramis presses wet, breathless kisses there, eyes closing, erection pressing against Porthos' leg.

 

“The ice cream,” Porthos says, softly. “Alright, pet?”

 

“Green,” Aramis says, scrambling up, using Porthos' knee as leverage, to get the ice cream and kneeling back down.

 

Aramis leans into Porthos' thigh and feeds him, waiting, trembling. Porthos sucks a few bites off the spoon, then he tugs and Aramis falls against his stomach. Aramis' breathing speeds up, feeling the soft round of Porthos' belly, feeling Porthos' quick breathing. Aramis feeds him another bite, and looks up. Porthos has his eyes shut, his head tilted back a little. His beard is tended and trimmed, for once, and he's had a haircut recently so the line of his fade is clear and defined, dark against his brown skin. He looks beautiful.

 

“Eyes down,” Porthos says, tilting Aramis' head back to it's bowed position.

 

“I want to see you,” Aramis says.

 

“Maybe later,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis nods, and offers up the spoon again. They get through most of the ice cream like that, Porthos' breathing coming a bit harsher as he gets full. Aramis rests against his belly, enjoying the shift and pull of Porthos under him, his heart beat, the hard press of Porthos' erection. Aramis sighs, when the ice cream is nearly gone, already disappointed there's not more.

 

“Watch me, now,” Porthos says, tilting Aramis' head back.

 

When Aramis gives him the spoon, Porthos sucks the ice cream off, then bends, pressing their lips together. Porthos' mouth is cold, and the sweet, melted ice cream slides into Aramis' mouth. Porthos' whole mouth taste sweet and sugary. Aramis runs his tongue along Porthos' teeth, gasping against his lips. Tingling.

 

“Feed me,” Porthos demands, pulling away.

 

Aramis gives him another bite, and watches as Porthos leans back a bit, savouring it, his eyes closing. Aramis' breathing is harsh, by now, and his hands are shaking. He's trembling all over, Porthos' solid body keeping him together. He feels Porthos take a deep breath, his stomach rising.

 

“That's enough,” Porthos says. “Suck me.”

 

Aramis does as he's told. Porthos' thighs squeeze him, bracket him, keep him safe. He rocks as he sucks, moaning, too far gone to control himself. He presses into Porthos, whining in the back of his throat, hand cradling Porthos' balls, rubbing his fingers above the dildo, over and over, over Porthos' coarse hair.

 

“Nn, up here, up here,” Porthos says, scrambling backwards, dragging Aramis up after him. He pushes Aramis onto his back and rolls a condom over Aramis' erection, fingers behind himself, loosening and prepping. He turns, pressing his shoulders and face into the bed, knees tucked under him. “Lick me.”

 

Aramis does, pressing his tongue over and over, until Porthos is relaxed and loose. Then he lies back, and Porthos rides him, heavy belly pressing forwards, groaning with each press down. Aramis comes too early, lips locked to Porthos', ice cream sweet kisses melting into him. Porthos yanks himself off Aramis and jerks the dildo and harness off, pressing himself to Aramis' mouth, rutting there until his thighs are trembling and slick. Then he comes.

 

“Oh God,” Porthos says, falling face first into the pillows, Aramis only just rolling out of the way, twitching all over. “Fuck. Fuck. Oh.”

 

“Okay?” Aramis asks.

 

“Yeh, yeh,” Porthos says, gasping for breath. “Give me time. Gotta come down.”

 

“I'm supposed to be sub,” Aramis says, sulking. “I'm supposed to need recovery.”

 

“C'mere, then, get a cuddle. You need anything else?” Porthos asks, raising his arm.

 

“Just you.”

 

“Here I am. Ah, careful of me nipples, they're sensitive.”

 

Porthos is still wearing his binder. Aramis undoes the clasps, and Porthos scowls, but he breathes easier and doesn't make Aramis do it back up. He strokes over Aramis' back, and Aramis shuts his eyes, hugging Porthos' belly. Porthos laughs softly.

 

“You like my stomach, eh?” he asks, thighs wrapping around Aramis.

 

“I do. Very much. I love you all over.”

 

“I love you, too. How are you doing in there?”

 

“Green. Bit shaky,” Aramis admits.

 

Porthos hum, rocking him, until he's feeling steadier. Then he goes to get a shirt, and a jock and soft packer. Aramis scowls until Porthos comes and embraces him again, holding him close.

 

“I love ice cream,” Porthos says, happily, kissing Aramis gently, gently. A few tears squeeze under Aramis' eyelashes. “Almost as much as I love you. Not quite, though. You're so good, so darling, so dear to me. My love.”

 

Aramis sighs. Porthos keeps on with the endearments, heaping on the praise, until Aramis drifts off. He sleeps all night, deeply and peacefully, body and mind quiet and restful. When he wakes, it's to Porthos snoring, on his back instead of his side or stomach like usual, Aramis curled on top of him. Aramis shifts off and Porthos immediately turns onto his front, snores dying down. Aramis lies on top of him again, wrapping his arm around Porthos' tattooed shoulder, fingers pressing to the ink he knows is there, falling back asleep.

 

Next time he wakes to sunshine, and no Porthos. Aramis gets up, tugs on clothes, and stomps around the flat until he finds Porthos in the bathroom, showering. The door's locked, but it's one of the locked you can open with a penny from the outside. Porthos shrieks when Aramis breaks in, and gets tangled in the shower curtain, nearly bringing the whole thing down. Aramis strips and climbs in with him, shoving until he's in Porthos' arms.

 

“You left me alone,” he whines, pressing his mouth to Porthos' ink.

 

“It's half twelve, you slept for ages,” Porthos says. “Plus, Athos got me up at god-awful-o'clock for a run.”

 

“That's why the door's locked. Forgot about Athos.”

 

“He went to get… coffee? A paper? I dunno. Booze? Hopefully he's gonna get the booze. He borrowed your clothes, by the way. He only brought his ducky jammies,” Porthos says.

 

“Let me do your hair?” Aramis asks.

 

“Nah, not this morning, love. I'm nearly done.”

 

“Leaving me alone in the bed, now you're gonna leave me alone in the shower,” Aramis grouches.

 

Porthos does leave him alone in the shower, and refuses to give Aramis cuddles and kisses until he goes to get properly dressed and stops parading wet and naked. Athos gets back in time to see Aramis' bare bum vanishing into the bedroom. Aramis pulls on jeans and a t-shirt and goes back to the kitchen, getting his arms around Porthos, his hands on Porthos' stomach, running up over his chest, his big shoulders. Aramis sighs, content.

 

“Right. I have a limpet, so you're gonna have to do the chopping. I'll tell you what to do, stop looking so panicked,” Porthos says. “It's salad, you don't have to cook anything. I don't want the house burned down, thanks.”

 

“I wouldn't burn it down,” Athos says.

 

“You were the only person at uni who set off the fire alarms because there was actual fire, and not just cigarettes and burnt toast,” Porthos says. “You set a microwave on fire trying to make spinach. You put tin foil in the microwave when it got replaced. We got through six microwaves.”

 

“Fine. Tell me what to do,” Athos says.

 

Aramis laughs against Porthos' neck and holds on tighter. Porthos indulges him most of the morning, until cooking needs to be done. Aramis stays firmly in Porthos arms, only moving to get kisses. Athos, used to them being ridiculous, ignores it all. Until Aramis forgets himself and gropes Porthos.

 

“For God's sake!” Athos bursts out, glaring at them. “Get a grip!”

 

“Got a very nice grip,” Aramis says, but lets Porthos go. “What do you want me to do, babe?”

 

“Go in the garden and start the grill,” Porthos says. “Take things out. Athos can carry. No, Athos needs to go get booze and pick up Sylvie. d'Art'll be here soon, he can carry things.”

 

Aramis sets up the garden, using the two round plastic tables they have to set food out on. The grill is easy to light, with fire-starters, and soon the garden fills with the smell of scorching meat. Porthos comes out and watches, a beer held loosely in his hand, apron tied around his middle. His stomach bulges over it a bit. It's only a half apron.

 

“Get that look off your face, I'm not havin' sex in the garden,” Porthos says.

 

Aramis pouts, but it just gets a wooden spoon thrown at his head. d'Artagnan comes out of the house carrying a cake, Constance holding his elbow. Porthos takes the cake and dumps it on the table, then comes to Aramis, passing him the beer, settling close for a bit. Porthos shifts closer.

 

“What's up?” Aramis asks, turning to rest a hand on Porthos' back.

 

“Uh-uh,” Porthos says, eyes following Constance around the garden as she admires the flowers.

 

“What'd she do?” Aramis asks, trying to work it out.

 

“Nothing. Doorbell,” Porthos says, hurrying away.

 

He comes back with Treville, and Aramis forgets the uncertainty. Athos returns with Sylvie and booze, and that puts everything out of Aramis' mind. He watches, laughing, as Porthos and d'Artagnan take turns telling Sylvie the worst stories they can think of about Athos. Athos sulks on the patio with Treville, who is pretending not to be napping.

 

Sylvie comes and grills with him for a while, asking him questions about Athos, about Porthos, about d'Artagnan and about himself. Aramis answers as best he can, half watching Porthos and d'Artagnan trying to wind Athos up, Constance laughing at their efforts.

 

“I'm gonna get a new tattoo,” Porthos says, later, later, lying on the lawn as it gets darker, dragging Aramis' hand to rest in the crease of his thigh. “Right here. I'm gonna have music and eternity between me thighs.”

 

“What?” Aramis asks, turning his attention from the warm light spilling out of the house, the others' voices and laughter, back to Porthos and the quiet darkening evening.

 

“Constance is gonna design something with a _Möbius_ strip and a treblecleff,” Porthos says. “Music and eternity.”

 

                                                             

 

“Right.”

 

“I'm getting it for you.”

 

“For me?”

 

“Yeah. We're forever, and you make me feel like I have something good between my thighs, instead of… you know. You make me feel good. Make me feel like my body's right.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Like music, and maths. Like it fits. Like the universe makes sense. Like numbers.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“I love you. I adore you. This grass is getting itchy, and it's getting cold. Let's go inside with the others. I want to do some dancin'. Do you like Sylvie?”

 

“I like her.”

 

“Me, too. She's good for Athos. Did you notice?”

 

“Yes. He's happier.”

 

“Much happier. Though, he was getting there anyway. He's easy around her, though.”

 

“Yes.”

 

They go inside, arm in arm, and Porthos puts on music. The others are in the living-room, talking, and Athos and Treville groan when the music comes on. Porthos and Constance dance, in the middle of the room. Sylvie laughs, and joins them, and Porthos spins her, welcoming her. They move together for a while, then Athos grumbles up and cuts in, swaying with her. Aramis sits with Treville, d'Artagnan already joining Porthos and Constance. Treville smiles.

 

“This was nice, thank you,” Treville says.

 

“Sure,” Aramis says, smiling as Porthos' head goes back with a bellow of laughter. “God I love the fuck out of that man.”

 

“I know,” Treville says.

 

“I'm gonna go dance with him,” Aramis says.

 

He presses into Porthos' body, moulding himself to it's softness, the strength of it, the familiar shape and warmth. Porthos allows it for a while, swaying, but then he wants to dance properly again, bouncing and grinding and jumping about, arms flailing. Aramis ducks, laughing, and lets him whirl away.

 

                                                                                         

 

“...so I want it as much in the crease of me thigh as I can, because that's a bit 'a me he really likes,” Porthos says, beaming at the tattoo artists.

 

The artist, Will apparently, looks uncertainly down at Porthos' design, then up at Porthos, then down at Porthos' thighs. Porthos' smile dims a tiny bit.

 

“Can you do it?” Porthos asks. “You said you could. I would ask the guy who did my back and shoulder and arm to do it, but she's gone off somewhere for ages, and I want this done. She recommended you.”

 

“Yes, I can. Are you sure you want it… there?” Will asks.

 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, smiling wide again. “I know it's gonna hurt and take longer to heal up, but it's gonna look awesome. I can suffer for beauty.”

 

“Mm. It's just- look, I'm not trying to be offensive, but there's a lot of fat there. If you lose the weight, the tat might get distorted.”

 

“...oh,” Porthos says, face falling, voice going very small. “Oh.”

 

“And then there's… well, you told me you're trans-sexual? Are you sure-”

 

“Trans _gender_ ,” Aramis snaps. “And yes, he's sure he wants it. He's fine the way he is, he's not going to 'lose the weight', there's no need to. Any time you start a sentence with 'I don't mean to be offensive' you should just stop yourself, because I can guarantee that you are being offensive. I think we should ask your usual guy for a better recommendation, Porthos.”

 

“No, no. If he'll do it, let's just get it done,” Porthos says.

 

“I'll do it,” Will says, shrugging. “Your choice.”

 

Porthos holds Aramis' hand for the whole five hours it takes Will to transfer the design. He refuses to let Will take a break, just breathing through the pain. Aramis sits close, resting his head right near Porthos, and talks to distract him, trying to make him laugh. He rubs over Porthos' shoulder and back. Porthos meets his eyes and smiles, sighing now and then, hand tightening and loosening with the pain. When Will is done he gives them care instructions, but Porthos is already half out of the door before he's done.

 

“Stupid fucking wanker. I would've hit him, but his ink's good,” Porthos says. “Damn him for being that good. I'm gonna kill Julie for sending me to that transphobic, fattist, fat-phobic arsehole.”

 

“I love you,” Aramis says, opening the car door for him.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Obviously. I'll show you how much, when we get home.”

 

“Can't have sex. My thigh hurts.”

 

Porthos sulks about that all the way home, then lies face down on the bed, complaining about the pain. Aramis sits with him, rubbing his back, running his hands over all the parts of Porthos' body he loves, telling Porthos how much each one means to him, saying all the nice things he always thinks when he watches Porthos.

 

“Alright, alright,” Porthos says, eventually. “I get it. Still feels sucky, to be called fat like that.”

 

“I know. I'm sorry he was such a twat.”

 

“Trans-sexual. Who the fuck says that anymore?”

 

“Older people, ignorant people, and arseholes. I think he was the last.”

 

“Yes. Definitely. Look at me thigh, tell me if he's fucked it up.”

 

Aramis has a look, and then cleans it, using anti-bac soap. He rubs in a bit of Neosporin, then lies down beside him and presses their noses together.

 

“It looks amazing,” Aramis says. “You're amazing. You look amazing. I love you. I really, really, love you. To absolute bits.”

 

“Mm. Say it again.”

 

“I love you, my wonderful Porthos,” Aramis says. “I love every inch of you and every quirk of you and every roll of you.”

 

“Mm hmm.”

 

“Love the way you look, love the way you think, love how kind you are. Love how you cuddle me. Love how to you laugh with me. Love how you indulge me.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I love you so very, very much,” Aramis says, softer. “So very much. It's like every molecule in the world is bright and vibrating, like every moment is full, like every breath is easy. I just love you, my beautiful, roly-poly, sunshine.”

 

Porthos presses his face against Aramis', cheeks plumping up with a smile, breathing out a pleased little sigh. Aramis kisses him, deep and slow.

 

“Roll on your back, love, and I'll make you come,” Aramis says.

 

“Mm. Kay. Want m'packer though.”

 

“Alright, hang on.”

 

Aramis has to be careful with the harness, has to be careful with everything. It's easy to get Porthos to orgasm, though. Porthos is sensitive and easy to get going, Aramis just presses kisses to his skin, running his fingers over the un-tattooed thigh. The harness rubs just above the tattoo and it's got to hurt, but Porthos refuses to remove it. Aramis makes him come fast, and then he removes the harness and lets Aramis make him come slow.

 

“Mush be'er,” Porthos slurs, afterwards, hand loose around Aramis' cock. “Rub one ou' on'm?”

 

Aramis presses close, cock sliding against Porthos' side. Porthos helps, a hand on Aramis' arse, fingers tightening over Aramis' erection. Aramis' breath catches. Porthos grins, and pushes his stomach out, and Aramis comes, mouth open, head back, mewling.

 

“Gonna need t'clean it 'gain,” Porthos says, smug and self-satisfied, when Aramis finally goes limp.

 

Aramis does, gently, tenderly. Then he feeds Porthos, lying beside him, placing slices of orange, grapes, and little squares of cake right on Porthos' tongue.

 

“I love you, too,” Porthos says, softly, when Aramis runs out of food. “Every day. Every bit.”

 

“I know. I saw the tattoo, remember? Eternity and music between your thighs.”

 

“All for you,” Porthos says, grinning, pulling Aramis' hand to his crotch and pressing it there. Aramis cups him, and Porthos sighs, pressing a little into the hand.

 

He falls asleep with Aramis' hand still there, as if it's comforting. Aramis undoes his binder while he sleeps, rubbing Porthos' back when he frowns. Aramis falls asleep, too, soon enough.

 

The next day he spends curled against Porthos' belly, on the sofa. Porthos has his thigh up and his tattoo open to the air. He's naked, except for his binder. Aramis is naked, too. They work their way through the alien films, Aramis feeding Porthos popcorn and candy and making him lunch and being way too indulgent of his complaints about his tattoo, kissing and cleaning and rubbing in ointment and giving Porthos an orgasm for the endorphins.

 

Curled together, limp, a little damp and sticky, Aramis cleaning Porthos' tattoo yet again, Aramis realises that eternity isn't something that only Porthos believes in. There's something so steadfast and ongoing about Porthos, about them. Aramis turns his hand, and presses his wrist to Porthos' mouth for a kiss.

 

“I'm gonna get a little tat, just there,” Aramis whispers. “A little, simple, clichéd, infinity sign. Just a little figure of eight. Just a little figure of Porthos.”

 

“Alright,” Porthos says. “Then we'll match.”

 

Aramis sits up and kisses him.

 

                                                                                                    


End file.
